


While you were away

by NobodyFromNowhere



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychology, Romance, Self-Harm, Songfic, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobodyFromNowhere/pseuds/NobodyFromNowhere
Summary: Tyler is busy working around the house. Josh accidentally finds someone's notebook in the woods. The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes. Everything is not as it seems at first glance.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Пока тебя не было](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/481381) by польза. 



The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes.

"Tyler, do something around the house! Help your mother! Do you hear me?" he hears it from the hallway.

With the arrival of autumn, the sun rises in the morning later and later, with laziness and reluctance. Tyler can understand it. Every time he has to make an effort to get out of bed in the morning. Usually he wakes up from the noise in the corridor – Zack and Maddie, hurrying to study, again arguing about which of them will get the first shower. In his room Jay, don't give a damn about anyone, turns on Green Day – he says, that flock under music business. Every day, Tyler wakes up with a headache because outside the bedroom door, Billy Joe unsuccessfully tries to out-shout Zack, "I'm late, Madison, how many times do I have to tell you?"

Tyler usually wakes up, lies there for a long time, looks up at the ceiling, listens to the house. Water splashes in the shower, a kettle boils in the kitchen downstairs, and his father swears under his breath when he takes a mug of hot coffee too abruptly and spills it on his hand. Later in the hallway Tyler hears Maddie's knocking heels, and Zack's rustling jacket. Zack muffled says something, Tyler can't hear it very well, but, probably, Zack tries to reconcile with her sister again. Jay turns off the music and runs downstairs. You can hear two cars leaving the house. At about seven o'clock the house calms down, having lost half of its inhabitants.

This is usually the time Tyler makes himself wake up. 

The first rays of the sun shattered against the window glass, apply blush on the walls. Outside the window, the trees lose their last leaves, and the only bright spot is a patch of green grass on the lawn, which resists the last forces of night frosts. The flowers at the garden path drooped, withered, withered. Crimson petals of faded roses bordered by a white coating of frost. 

"Tyler, I'm leaving!" father shouts from the hallway, "Help your mother, do you hear? Don't act like you can't hear! Do something useful!"

The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes. 

After breakfast, brown coffee stains cover the dining table like ulcers. The countertops are sprinkled with crumbs. It would be nice to remove the package of milk back in the fridge, would be nice to sweep the floor and go for groceries. It would be nice to discard all your problems at once, turning into a holistic person with a healthy psyche.

Tyler has a terrible headache, he feels nauseous, his whole body feels like it's stuffed with cotton. He sighs and makes himself move. Takes a step, then another. He has a lot of things to do today. He can not relax, he can not think only about himself.

In the hallway slams the front door – father went to work. The house is silent, perfect and smooth as glass. 

Everyone in their family has a morning routine. Dad, Maddie, Zack and Jay need to wake up, fight, win the shower, try to quickly swallow something for breakfast, get ready for work or school. Tyler has responsibilities, too. He wakes up in the morning, goes to the kitchen, puts the kettle on. He takes eggs and cheese out of the fridge, makes an omelette, takes a plate out of the Cabinet. He sets the table.

Usually on morning, when mom comes down from the bedroom, all work is already done.

She appears in the doorway in her bright red robe, majestic and unattainable, like a Saint from an old icon that Tyler had looked at in a Church book a long time ago. It seems that the same red robe was the Virgin Mary on the icon "Our Lady of Sorrows" As a child, Tyler thought the glowing circle of light above the woman's head was a spacesuit. Beautiful alien flew from outer space to give all the salvation and his seven daggers soften human hearts.

He wonders how many daggers would Tyler need to soften his own heart?..

Mother sits at the table.

"Tyler, honey, good morning," she says, smiling, "How did you sleep?"

"Great, mom."

He answers without thinking – not because he really sleeps well at night, but because he knows that his mother wants to hear from him this answer. This is another of his routine duties – he must calm his parents, he must show them that he is getting better.

Perhaps he isn't, but so what. He can't to think only about himself.

Mother nods and looks around. She winces when she sees bread crumbs scattered everywhere.

"Darling, could you wipe the table?"

Tyler nods and reaches for the cloth.

He does everything masterfully, quickly, perfectly. He does it every day. In terms of cleaning he's already a Pro.

Mother tastes the omelette.

"A little salty, I think."

"Sorry."

"Nevermind," she says, slowly giving her son a appraising look, "You remember that today I have to leave for a while? The basketball championship is coming up, I have to watch the school team."

"Yes, mom."

"Will you be okay if... if you stay home alone?"

"Sure, mom."

He answered too quickly, too briefly, not enough to calm her down and put her suspicions to sleep. His mother purses her lips doubtfully and takes a sip from the cup, keeping her eyes on him. Tyler stands at the sink, uneasily clutching the rag, and for a moment he wonders how he looks like from the outside, what his own mother sees. Tired, disheveled, painfully thin, with a shifty look?.. In the morning he forgot to wash and change, and he does not remember the last time combed. Day by day it becomes more and more difficult for him to keep such ordinary things in his head.  
Once he was alive and artistic, vulnerable, often laughed and could easily cry. From the beginning of high school, everything began to change: he was tired quickly, lost his appetite, tried to finish things quickly and lie down, but still remained himself, witty and piercing sensitive. And then the last year of College broke something important in him, and now he's turned into this – a pale and haggard stand for a kitchen rag.  
He wants to scream, he wants to laugh, but he quickly extinguishes the inappropriate outburst. You can't just think about yourself, you can't, you can't.

Mother sighs wearily.

"I'm relying on you, darling. You can't let us down, remember?"

"Yeah."

She sighs again and looks out the window. On the lawn in front of the house scattered yellow leaves, trees swaying restlessly from side to side, as if trying to calm the pain. From somewhere over the horizon, the wind managed to lure heavy storm clouds. It'll probably rain tonight.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" his mother asks him, getting up from the table.

Tyler looks at the rest of her omelette on the plate and feels sick to his throat.

"Yeah. I got up early today."

It is a lie, but the mother, as usual, does not feel it. Tyler doesn't remember the last time she was really sensitive, attentive to him. It is better not to remember.

"Do you know what to do today?"

He nods.

"I've got your list."

According to a long tradition, a stiker hangs on the door of the fridge. Every day of the week is written in the mother's handwriting.

wash the dishes  
tidy the garden  
wash clothes  
clean the rooms on the first floor

If Tyler can handle all the tasks before his parents return, then there are additional items on the list – so he does not sit idle, so he does not remain alone with himself, so he does not start thinking again. 

"I'll be home before lunch," mother says, adjusting her bright red robe, "I'll warn you before I leave."

"Okay."

The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes. Tyler takes a dirty plate from the table and starts doing things. He washes pans, cups, food containers. He puts the milk in the fridge, wipes the tables, sweeps the floor. Collects in the basket all the dirty Laundry and load it into the washing machine in the basement. Collects fallen leaves on the lawn and and cuts withered roses with garden scissors.   
Housework calms and organizes thoughts. Time flies. Thanks to the list, Tyler doesn't have to worry about anything – he always has a task, always has a goal. His whole existence seems to make sense.

Tyler falls into a routine, like a dark pit, and doesn't feel tired, doesn't feel hungry, doesn't feel anything. In the chest something whining softly from the blissful emptiness. Even the headache fades into the background.

From time to time, his mother sneaks in to check in him. Sometimes she nods in satisfaction and leaves, sometimes she shakes her head and shoves him aside, irritably showing him what he did wrong. Tyler watches her silently, without resentment or anger, and then goes back to work – as if he's never been interrupted. 

Before leaving for work, his mother checks to see if he has enough to do before the rest of the household returns. She kisses the air around his cheek, tells him to be a good boy, and slams the front door. Tyler's alone. He wipes the dust in the living room, washes the floor in the hallway, changes the light bulb in the pantry. His mother calls him every hour to see if he's okay, and when she talks to him, Tyler has to hold the phone between his shoulder and his ear because he's either up to his elbows in soapy water or vacuuming.

In the evening, when things are over and everyone returns from work or school, Tyler feels so exhausted that he no longer has the strength for anything. He goes to his room, closes the door and falls on the bed, into the blackness that no one dream can break.

During the day, the house is like a grave, a family crypt, in which Tyler hovers. He is inaudible hardworking shadow with black holes instead of eyes. It's like he's not really here. Tyler hopes that one day he'll go to sleep and won't wake up. But the next day it starts all over again. The next morning from Jay's room he hears Green Day again, Zack and Maddie are fighting again standing in the hallway. His father, leaving, calls him a loafer and slams the door. Mother comes down in the morning for breakfast.

Every day, Tyler opens his eyes and comes down to the kitchen at seven in the morning. He can't think only about himself. He can't think only about himself. He can't think.


	2. 2

The kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes.

''Tyler!'' his father shouts from the hallway, ''There's a lot of work! Do something!''

The front door slams.

At breakfast, his mother bites off a toast, and for a secondher expression fills with carefully restrained suffering.

''It’s a little bit burnt ,'' she said reproachfully, ''Next time don't keep them on the pan for that long, honey.''

She kisseshim goodbye, her lips grazing empty spacea few inches from his cheek. 'Be a good boy,''I'll call.'Her car moves smoothly and dives into the fog, leaving behind a red thread of light.

There's a sticky note on the fridge.

wash the dishes  
sort out in the pantry  
sprinkle the roses with sawdust  
clean the shower cabin

A new day begins.

Tyler washes plate after plate. It's a monotonous, soothing, safe activity. Hot water warms his hands nicely, and through the large window above the sink he can see the street, he can watch passers-by and shining cars. If he tries, he can imagine that with each plate, spoon, mug the world becomes a little cleaner. 'I wish my thoughts could just as easily get rid of the dirt,' Tyler thinks. 

He looks at the sink full of water and involuntarily thinks about the silence full of echoes, about what happens if you put your head underneath the water surface and hold your breath. He looks at the foam from the detergent and thinks about the sea foam - the little Mermaid has probably turned into something like this. Sacrifice, silence, pain from every step. A little scary for a children's tale, but children should be warned about the horrors of the real world. 

The phone vibrates on the countertop. The display shows an unfamiliar number. Tyler frowns and wipes his soapy hand on the apron.

''Hello?''

''Tyler Robert Joseph?'' a man's voice asks.

'Yes,'' he says. ''Who's that?''

Somewhere in the background he can hear the howling of the wind, the rumbling of the car engine.

''I'm Josh. We don't know each other. I... don't know how to say this. I was walking through the forest, you know, it's behind the 24-hour mall on the outskirts of town, and I kind of found your notebooks.''

The phone almost slips out of his soapy hand. His hearthits the inside of his ribs painfully. To his pure horror, Tyler knows what this guy is talking about.

'This notebook belongs to: Tyler Robert Joseph. If you happen to find it, please return it to me. I probably lost it or left it somewhere and now I feel kinda stupid. Contact me. Study group: 0415. My phone number is xxxx xxx xx xx.'

Several years ago, he was very proud of each notebook, held them in folders, kept them in a large box under his bed. They came into his life in high school, went with himthrough college, then he brought them back home. Once they were his confidants, listeners and advisers, reliable keepers of all his ideas. 

That was way before he realized how dark and frightening his thoughts had been all along. This is better not to keep at home. There are things that should better be kept in a stone tower of the skull bone and never be pulled out.

''I don't need it,'' he says quickly, frightened, ''Get rid of it. Do whatever you want. Please don't call me again.''

''Hey. Hey, wait!'' the guyrespondsbriskly, ''Are you sure? There are seven notebooks, man. It seems that they are full of some kind of notes from cover to cover. I thought you would be glad to hear that they arein a perfect condition, despite the rain.''

Tyler closes his eyes and shakes his head.

''No, no, put it back where you found them. I don't need them anymore. I threw them away, I threw them away for good, and you just happened to run into them – that's all.''

''You threw them away? In the woods?''

''Yeah.''

''Dude,'' his voice becomes warm, a little bit mocking, ''If you wanted to get rid of them once and for all, why didn't you take them to, well, a dumpster or something? No one would just run into them that way."

''That... that doesn't matter anymore.''

“Listen, I didn’t look inside — well, didn’t look on purpose — but one of the notebooks was open when I found them. Are they all filled with... poems? It looked like poems.”

“It doesn't matter,” Tyler repeats blankly, ''It does not matter.''

Is it even possible to explain to a stranger all the things that has happened to him in a past few years? Tyler has made a mistake. He shouldhave set these notebooks on fire, just like some kind of a witch, or bury them in a garden, just like a corpse. But he was careless, he was hopeful. One by one, he threw the notebooks into the darkness of the forest, wishing with all his heart to remove this curse, but they returned to him from the other world with an unfamiliar guy whoprobablythinks that his accidental finding is somethig funny.

''Why would anyone throw out his poems in the forest?'' the guy insists.

Tyler blankly stares at the window.

“If you read it, you’ll understand,” he says, clutching the phone in his hand. “But better not do it. Throw them away again. Please.”

''Wait, I ...''

''I have to go.''

Tyler drops the call.

He has to spend an extra five minutes to recover. His former state of peace and relaxation is gone without a trace, the headache is pressing on his temples, as if the chaotic thoughts are batteling their way out, trying to escape out of his head. Tyler leans on his hands against the sink, breathing hard, staring at the soapy water. It would be great, probably, to puthis face under it – to close his eyes, just listen to the silence, not bothering himselfwith breathing anymore. It would be nice to clear his troubled head, just like another dirty plate, and let hisanxietygo into the drainwith the dirty water.

When his mother calls him in half an hour, asking how he's doing, Tyler tells her that he's okay. Reassuring his parents is one of his unwritten responsibilities, along with the 'you should not think only about yourself 'rule. And Tyler has to behave. He have promised. He should stick to the list of chores.

In the evening, before bed, he finds a box where he kept his old notebooks once and secretly throws it into the trash can.


End file.
